i bow before the humbled one, for i abide by no credo of a torture instrument; better bestow my hopes on the hopeless one, than entertain the audacity of those who bypass him, un-humbled, not guardian of the attire of a hunchback's garb in body, or shadow... i pledged my allegiance to the one seeking solace in ensuring the lie was but a joke, the one who nourishes my tongue to flourish, bloom and be a gift of flowers, upon a barren sea of striking grass... may i consider myself to be his second apostle in this verse of tongue, and may i receive the same proof of guidance, by being blinded, akin to my predecessor; unless i be blinded twice-over, by having reached a stage of writing: the most ugly choice of words, worthy of nothing more than, a place in a newspaper.

i believe in facts, oh yeah,
facts are important -
but not when they're
paced to an encyclopedic
barrage's worth of
regurgitation...
             this whole **** about
writing history
without actually making any?
that kills the greyest of
the grey matter in a person's
brain.
    i truly think that
we've become vultures of
the past,
           we're sucker-punching
the dead into waking up
once more...
            fist-******* the dead
into staying awake,
when they're clearly dead-asleep,
championing the warrior
in a society of incubated
violence surrounded by
         pacifism and dead-weight
**** -
          strange,
female genitals were always
considered a currency,
while the male genitals always
the warring mechanisation
where the other organs
managed to congregate -
           what's worth celebrating
the "warrior" these days?
probably about as much worth
celebrating filling a shoe
  with 200 peanuts...
               sure, bulging,
sure this that and the other -
they should at least allow these
gym freaks to produce electricity
by allowing them to work
that hamster wheel of the tread...
they could generate about a day's
worth of light-bulb energy in
an hour session at the bulging
protein parlour.
                 point is,
i feel that i have no place in history,
just a tomorrow and
a yesterday...
   i hardly think there's a today when
i think of today in the cofines
of a tomorrow or a, yesterday...
just another hour,
  with another "hour" added to a day,
a month, a year...
                  and it can only
be said is that the most honesty
you find in people,
is in their dishonesty...
but i am under the impression,
in Milton's terms:
that lying ought to begin with a joke,
be attired in mischievousness -
to tell a lie is to also tell a joke...
  *dico mendacia etiam est dico iocus,
how the satanic "lie" of eden is
now misrepresented, and taken toward
the heights of overt-seriousness...
for all our quests in understanding
of the originality of a sin that's
without any originality to abide by:
a mere plagiarism of the gods...
                  the court jester is riddled
in what was no lie, but a mere joke;
when an angel lies, he jokes...
it is unlike the same utilisation of
lying that a man makes use of -
there is no humour in a man lying,
only the hidden hand, the strings,
and a puppet.
                       man is no liar for
the chance of a good joke,
man lies for the desire to manipulate...
which is why i deem, akin to Milton,
satan, the father of my narrative,
as well as the much respected heckler
in a crowd of: mutes.